All evening, Venetia had been aware of the penetrating azure-blue eyes following her around the room, and when occasionally she met their enigmatic gaze she found it hard to tear away from their scrutiny. Neither approached the other; they had merely circled around their mutual awareness, which vibrated heavily in the air no matter how dense the crowd became. And now, as she stood before the mirror, he had once more been there in the dim shadows, the reflection of his powerful silhouette caught in the glass by the leaping light of the fire, devilment sparking from behind the black mask.
A couple of ladies in full carnival dress, their heads clouded in veils of black lace, walked out of the ballroom, interrupting Venetia’s reverie. She looked up at the clock. Firelight fell warm on the gold dial. Time had stopped for her. She was amazed at how long she had been standing there reminiscing about her lost life, feeling the echoes of a lost love. She should be returning to the party.
Venetia took off her Columbine mask. She still sensed she was half in the past and paused for a moment with her hand on the door handle, listening to the voices and the people laughing, before turning it and going in.
The long room, flooded with a golden glow from enormous Murano chandeliers, was filled with people mostly hidden behind carnival masks, their disguises rich and colourful, glittering with the splendour of diamonds, rubies, sapphires and emeralds. Transformed by their costumes into stately drifting mountains of Burano lace, with bright trailing peacock skirts of old brocade, the ladies flicked fans before their false faces, their heads adorned with neat, small cockaded tricorne hats. The men too wore masks, but with noses protruding like beaks – the famous ‘bauta’: the Venetian disguise par excellence. For many, the costumes consisted of voluminous black cloaks wrapped high about the neck, and with white stockinged legs they looked much like crows and magpies. Their heads were covered in large black tricorne hats with sweeping lines, the edges trimmed with flickering white feathers. There were also costumes inspired by historic court attire, and other fantasy-style masquerade dress. The surreal majesty of the scene reminded Venetia of the dusky painting ‘Il Ridotto’ by Venetian artist Pietro Longhi that she had always found so spooky, with its macabre eighteenth-century figures disguised in masks and shrouded in shadows.
The heavy door shut softly behind her and she stood there unnoticed, looking at the guests in their fabulous attire, some masked and others not, all talking and laughing. She felt a little underdressed in her simple, frilled, low-bodice sobretta outfit, with its patchwork of red, green and blue diamonds and large white apron and mob cap trimmed with lace. It represented a woman of the people, Colombina, the perky maid in the Commedia dell’Arte, the counterpart of Arlecchino, and sometimes his wife. The costume had been given to her by her godmother for a New Year’s Eve masked ball in London, and it had won first prize; in fact it had been the fancy dress party at which she had met Judd; but that was years ago… so much had happened since… she must not think of all that now. She shook off her darkening mood and moved into the sea of revellers.
Unconsciously searching for him among this pandemonium of masks, Venetia did not see Paolo immediately. When she spotted him, she saw that he had bared his face and was standing at the far end of the room, a glass of champagne in one hand while the other rested on a Corinthian column. He gave an impression of fitness and steadiness, and the other men in the room appeared to Venetia washed out in contrast. Though his body was lithe, there was something almost frightening about his apparent strength and vigour, almost inhuman. She had to admit that Paolo, with his dark head and his deeply tanned face lit by those arresting cobalt eyes, was the most striking-looking man she had ever seen: like a fallen angel.
He was surrounded by other figures of the Commedia dell’Arte. There was il Dottore wearing a long black tunic with a jacket that reached all the way to the ankles, black shoes, a skullcap, and an unusual black mask that covered only the nose and the forehead; il Capitano in his suit with bright multi-coloured stripes and gilt buttons, a feathered cap and a frightful sword; and Pulcinella in a loose linen blouse belted with a rope over thin tights and a huge warped belly, a hat and a half face-mask with a hooked nose giving him a bird-like look.
Paolo was watching Venetia intently, only half listening to the vivacious blonde cortigiana in a splendid golden outfit of the courtesan with plunging neckline and a tall conical hat. His head stood out distinctly against the ochre wall, his gold-bronze face beaming now as his host approached. They spoke for a few minutes before threading their way through the crowd towards Venetia.
Il Conte Umberto Palermi di Orellana was a tall, aristocratic, handsome man in his early thirties who was known to be a bon viveur and a philanderer. Tonight he was Lelio, the elegant innamorato, lover of the Commedia dell’Arte, in a sumptuous court dress of the eighteenth century. As was customary for that character, he did not wear a mask. He had met Giovanna Lombardi, Venetia’s godmother, at a drinks party. A few weeks later, he had approached Giovanna’s firm, Bianchi e Lombardi: Architetti, to take on the refurbishment of Palazzo Palermi, which he had just inherited from his father and which was in need of a total face-lift.
The renovation and redecoration of old historic buildings was Venetia’s speciality and the Palazzo Palermi had become her first big project while working in her godmother’s firm. After graduating from Cambridge, she had completed a Master’s degree in History of Art at The Courtauld Institute of Art in London, and had then spent some time at Istituto per l’Arte e il Restauro ‘Palazzo Spinelli’ in Florence. Even though she showed great promise in straightforward architecture, Venetia did not feel it was her calling. And so Giovanna had put her in charge of Marmi Storici e Pietra, the department for the restoration of historic buildings, where she was able to develop her talent for restoring mosaics and murals. She had immediately excelled and was beginning to make a name for herself in Venice.
Still, as her first major venture, the job had taken almost a year to realise, during which time Umberto had tried every trick in his book to seduce the young woman. It had been to no avail: his Adonis good looks and his charm left her cold. By the end of the assignment, not only had Venetia managed to carry out the works to completion without falling out with the notorious womaniser, but she had also gained the Count’s admiration and respect. So much so, that he had asked her to marry him. She had been careful to turn him down gently. Umberto had taken the rebuff graciously but told her that he would not give up hope and she could be sure he would be asking her again.
‘Venetia, cara, you look amazing,’ Umberto Palermi oozed, taking her hand and bringing it up to his lips, his eyes brilliant with lust. ‘I have neglected you all evening. You must forgive me.’ Not waiting for her reply, he added: ‘Have you met my best friend, il Signor Paolo Barone?’ and, turning to Arlecchino, he introduced her. ‘La Signorina Aston-Montagu, who waved her magic wand over this place and from a heap of ruins turned it into a magnifico palazzo.’
A twinkle lit Paolo’s eyes. ‘No, I don’t think I have had the pleasure of meeting the signorina,’ he declared, a deep and sexy cadence in his voice.
Venetia felt herself blushing. It was really annoying not to be able to control one’s colour. Looking up at Paolo, she was sure he must be aware of the effect he had on her. With luck he would conclude that it was actually Umberto’s proximity that was affecting her in this way. His powerfully masculine glance swept over her and she felt an involuntary heat unfurl deep down. Remembering her manners, she put out her hand.
‘How do you do?’
Suddenly, there was a violent blast of noise before their hands could make contact.
‘Ah, the fireworks have begun,’ exclaimed the Count, taking Venetia’s arm. ‘Come, let’s go outside.’
The heavy brocade curtains were drawn back by young pages in eighteenth-century court dress and elegant floor-to-ceiling windows pushed open, inviting guests on to the wide veranda. Venetia was gratefu
l for the interruption that was taking her away from Paolo’s silent scrutiny. No man since those far-off days had stirred her as he did, almost from the moment they had met on that strange, dramatic evening. And while Umberto escorted her on to the terrace, although she could not see him, Venetia had no doubt that Paolo’s eyes were still dwelling on her with that curious expression she was beginning to know, and which puzzled her so.
Umberto’s palazzo, only a few streets away from San Marco, had an enviable view over the waterway, where the neck of the Grand Canal joined the broader stretch of water in front of the city’s famous square. The wide canal had filled with boats and barges gliding along the dark water like fireflies: each vessel was trimmed with arches of leaves, plume-like clusters of ferns, and festoons of laurels, lit up with hanging paper lanterns and slowly drifting through a swaying mass of gondolas.
From the far end of the Grand Canal, among the docks and shipping, the muffled darkness burst suddenly into a festival of dazzling light as the mysterious night sky became starred with jewels of fire.
The fireworks soared into the air; they broke into raying diamonds of brightness and then floated towards earth, expiring in their downward flight. Other little points of light appeared, followed by tongues of flame rushing up from different places and flowing out large luminous bubbles of silvery-blue and green and sapphire. One after another, the rushing rockets sprang hissing upwards and, towering far above the water, burst with a soft shock into a golden sheaf of fire. They hung uncertain for one moment in the sky, and then came showering down.
Clouds of pearly smoke billowed out from under the trees on the piazza, turning from ruby to rose, from yellow to opalescent green – curling mists that enriched everything around and transformed the crowds and buildings into a fabulous, surreal painting soaked in gold.
And then, from out of the obscurity, a crystal waterfall curved up like a wave and streamed down into the darkness, white, noiseless and shimmering; on and on the miraculous river of silver flowed over and melted away, and a great uproar surged from the masses watching from the boats and on the shore.
Venetia was aware of Umberto being called away at this point and relieved that his rather overt attentions next to her were now gone, but Paolo had remained. She could feel his eyes on her, close somewhere, and she shivered slightly though she was transfixed on the scene of great splendour and movement above her. She watched, fascinated, as huge plumes of golden spray tossed high in the sky, looking like dissolving feathers of fire, and wheels of green spun madly to extinction, hurling burning sparks from them and blooming fire flowers.
There was a pause before the spectacular finale. Soft stars of colour shot up, soaring into the night. One after another, bouquets of primrose, coral and lilac rose slowly into the sky, blossomed exotically there, flamed, floated, and then vaguely fell, as if faint with an excess of beauty, into the inky water below, which received them and folded them to itself with a kiss.
It was the first time Venetia had witnessed firework displays on such a magnificent scale from so close, and a strange excitement coursed through her like the blazing colours that had exploded across the dark sky above. ‘A dream being born in the night air,’ she murmured to herself, as the glimmering wonder ended.
‘Just that one moment of insane beauty before they consume themselves and die,’ answered Paolo’s voice out of the darkness.
Venetia was now even more aware of his disconcerting presence behind her, as Paolo’s low voice seemed to caress her provocatively, and she was not sure whether she wanted to welcome his company or flee it.
After a brief moment, she heard him whisper again. ‘Life ought to hold that once for everyone.’
‘And sometimes it does,’ she breathed, without turning round. The evening had taken on a vivid and surreal magic that she did not want to let go of. She did not need to speak to him to know that he was feeling it too, and this connection between them that needed no words intrigued and scared her in equal measure.
The guests were crowding back into the ballroom. Paolo silently took Venetia’s arm and guided her away from the crush towards the balustrade that overlooked the canal. Leaning his back against the stone, he took out of his pocket a packet of cigarettes and offered her one. She declined.
‘May I?’
‘Yes, of course, go ahead.’
He lit the cigarette, drew on it deeply and shook his head. ‘Quite a spectacle, don’t you think? The last moments of joy before the imminent penance of Lent!’ He gave a deep throaty laugh that somehow made her join in.
‘It really was a magnificent show. I’ve never seen anything like it!’
‘Only the Venetians know how to celebrate in such an extravagant way, and the dawning of a new millennium just adds to the wildness. It’s all part of a long history of revelry and decadence in this city, where prince and subject, rich and poor joined in the festivities, and could move around in complete safety and freedom in the secure knowledge that their identity remained incognito. Carnival fulfils a deep human need for subterfuge, don’t you think?’ He gazed at her again, his expression unreadable.
She glanced at him sideways. ‘I suppose it’s an occasion for people to hide beneath a mask and to change a role they have in ordinary life.’
Despite the cold, they remained outside for a while, silently savouring Venice in moonlight. All the lights of the great city were reflected and broken up into countless points of fire, like diamond dust, in the ripples of the Grand Canal; and a velvet canopy of sky, powdered with stars above, sparkled over the distant roofs.
Paolo had turned away to stare at the dazzling view that lay in front of them. ‘None of the works of art of man equal the sight of Venice by the Grand Canal when the moon is up,’ he murmured, as though to himself, his attention riveted on the endless line of palazzi, the ghostly whiteness of their marble fronts rejuvenated by night. ‘For a few hours the moon hides the city’s frightful rotting façades behind a transparent silver mask, giving her some fairylike quality, a sort of innocence. Looking like this, one would never guess at the decay which gnaws at her core.’ And then, facing her again, he added, ‘A rude awakening for the unsuspecting tourist when daylight comes, don’t you agree?’ His voice was passionate, a touch melancholy, and the deep timbre of it once again drew her to him in that curious way she found difficult to fathom.
His words echoed Venetia’s thoughts, but not quite. Ever since she could remember, Venice in moonlight had held a strange magical power over her. She didn’t see the decay, only the enchantment. The whiteness of Paolo’s collar threw the darkness of his tan into relief. She remained silent but was aware of him like never before. For once she held his smoky-blue gaze, fascinated by the changeable colour of his eyes but disturbed by its sad expression and the bitterness in his voice. They stared at each other, a curious feeling quivering inside her, like the vibration of a violin string after it has been played. It was no more than a moment, but it seemed so much longer to Venetia and it left her uneasy.
She glanced at her watch. ‘I really must be going.’
‘There’ll be no vaporetti running at this hour,’ Paolo remarked, his gaze still intent on her face, ‘and even if there are a few, they would not be safe – too many drunken people out tonight looking for a good time. Let me give you a lift. My launch is not far off.’
‘I’m sure I’ll find a water-taxi without difficulty.’
And then abruptly, his eyes darkened. ‘What is a pretty woman like you doing out on the town on her own, on a night like this? I can’t believe you have no fidanzato, Venetia. Is the man away? Do you have no father? No mother? No brother to care for you?’ His outburst was almost angry as he threw down his cigarette, crushing it vigorously beneath his heel.
Venetia bridled with irritation, though it was mixed with an odd thrill at the sound of his using her name for the first time. The questions were rather forward, she thou
ght, choosing to focus on her sense of outrage. The fact that he had rescued her from a robber’s assault did not give him the right to be personal. The added vehemence of his reaction was too territorial for her liking. Venetia abhorred a macho stance in men. After all, it was to get away from a domineering father that, when her mother died, she had decided to make her life in Venice.
She forced a stiff smile to her lips. ‘Really, I’ll be fine. Thank you for your concern.’
Paolo sighed. ‘As you wish, signorina, but at least let me walk with you until you find a taxi. I don’t think you realise what the town will be like on this Carnival Night. Don’t forget, it’s the first carnival of the new millennium. I dare say the people of Venice will be celebrating tonight with even more enthusiasm than in previous years. The Piazza San Marco, which you must inevitably cross, will be the scene of Babylonian events one can hardly imagine.’
Venetia hesitated. He was probably right; she had already found the journey a little hazardous on her way to the ball. Still, she was uncertain. Sometimes the power of his presence frightened her; she sensed a possessiveness she felt smothered by, even though he sounded really concerned and she knew perfectly well that his suggestions were sensible.
Paolo frowned and his mouth narrowed a little. ‘What are you afraid of? You risk much more going through the town on your own than if you ride alone with me in my launch.’ His face softened as he tried to suppress a smile. ‘I promise you I’m harmless.’
The Echoes of Love Page 2
